GOT: Reborn as a Martell

( Margaery POV )

Margaery could only stare outside the windows of the Red Keep as the raindrops kept falling. Long gone were the days of sunlight and warmth, winter was coming, and if the snows eluded the capital of the Seven Kingdoms, the rains had well and truly arrived and swept away all the light.

Not only had winter come and swept away the light outside, but it had also swept away the light inside Margaery's heart.

Instead of hearing of a glorious taking of Riverrun, stories of fire and death had only come back. And she had lost another brother.

It is said that they could not identify most of the bodies, so little of them were left after the dragon swept them away in a sea of blue flame. The little that survived scurried back to the capital, bruised, burnt or terrified.

She had seen most of them, huddled outside, shivering, looking at the sky and running to take cover under the stone walls, sometimes even crying, at the sound of a small bird flying by.

Shock made way to disbelief. How did the Starks get a dragon? Did the northmen have this trick lying around for years and not made anyone aware of it? According to some, the dragon was larger than the castle of Riverrun itself, something she had a hard time believing. For a dragon to grow to that size, it should be hundreds of years old.

And after disbelief, came the news. The Starks had not one, but two dragons. A dragon sheltered under their noses for five-and-ten years, the bastard son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. How did they miss it? Surely, someone should have known, noticed something! One does not hide a Targaryen bastard easily!

And then came the anxious wait. The dragon was going to come for them all, he was going to burn the capital to the ground for what had happened to Eddard and Sansa Stark.

But nothing came. The days went by, and although the bad news accumulated, it seems the dragon had no interest in them.

However, she had no time to even breathe a sigh of relief. News came, from Oldtown, of the massacre at sea, then the sacking of Oldtown. The Hightower had fallen, and although Leyton was dead, Baelor had rallied the survivors. The Ironborn were marching north, in a mad quest to fill their bloodlust by pillaging the Reach.

They were not the only ones.

The Northmen and Riverlanders had reached Goldengrove not three days before. Fortunately, the dragon did not burn the old keep, but the Northmen greedily served themselves in the stocks of house Rowan, taking everything they could get their hands on: gold, silver, grain…everything disappeared north.

And the dragon went south. From Goldengrove, there weren't many targets you could aim for…

Margaery was shattered. She had lost Loras, then Garlan…she would lose Willas too? And then what?

Would the Starks just let them be, after having destroyed their lands? Or would she be saved for last, after having seen all her family die around her?

There were knocks at the door.

Margaery got up, a tear rolling down her cheek, quickly swept away. A Queen doesn't cry, even if she really wants to.

"Enter," she finally said.

The woman who entered was one of her handmaidens and cousins, Elinor. She was not smiling, instead showing some kind of anxiousness.

Her betrothed, Alyn Ambrose, was at the Massacre at Riverrun. She had worried about him, thinking him to be amidst the pile of charred bodies.

Thankfully, Alyn got lucky, he was only slightly burnt, something many could not say. A half-burned sword arm would be all he'd have, and Margaery remembered Elinor breaking down at the sight of her betrothed, alive.

Today, Elinor wore a simple gown, anxious, like everyone in the Keep.

"Your grace," Elinor almost whispered, "it's about Alla."

"Has the maester found what was wrong with her?" Margaery asked.

Alla had not been feeling well in the past few days, in a state oscillating between fever, vomiting and tiredness. Everyone just thought that it was stress, especially since what everyone had gone through in the past few days.

But, as the days passed, nothing changed.

"Erm, your grace…" Elinor continued, avoiding eye contact.

"Get on with it, Elinor!" Margaery snapped, catching herself cold, "Sorry, it's…been a long day."

"She's pregnant, your grace." Elinor finally sighed.

"Pregnant?" Margaery's eyes widened.

Elinor nodded.

"Not very advanced, but due to the stress, she had a few side effects, the maester said thus."

"And, the babe? Is it alright?"

"It should be fine but Alla has to rest for a few moons, to try and calm down her state."

Margaery nodded in response.

"Thank you."

Elinor curtsied and left the room.

Margaery shook her head. There was no doubt to who the father was, and her current state did not allow for her to take moon tea. It would be too dangerous for her…

Gods, the Dornish always sowed their problems wherever they went.

Suddenly, another knock.

Margaery once again beckoned the person to enter. This time, it was her grandmother, who was also in a somber mood.

"Grandmother, what news?" Margaery swiftly asked.

"Nothing good, I'm afraid." She sighed. "No news of that dragon and no news of Highgarden since Willas' last letter."

"And the council meeting?"

"Your father wishes to raise a new host to go defend Highgarden, which is fine, if we weren't sure it would be torched." Her grandmother shook her head. "Tarly convinced him not to. We would be taking away all our forces that we dearly need to hold the Stormlands. With a bit of luck, Willas won't do anything stupid and give in to any demands the Northmen have."

Margaery silently nodded.

"What do you think will happen?" she asked.

"Well, if we're not burnt to a crisp at this moment, I can only assume the Northmen just want to plunder our stocks of food to prepare for the winter, the longest in living memory, according to the masters…" She sighed. "They will go back to their frozen wastes and hopefully leave us alone."

"You think the Kingdoms will stand?" Margaery asked, although knowing the answer.

"The North is out of our hands. The Riverlands and Vale might just be too. I'm afraid that if we do come out of this alive, you'll be Queen of Five Kingdoms."

Margaery swallowed. Four, without Dorne. Not much. The richest kingdoms, to be sure, but when she had been crowned, it was as Queen of Seven Kingdoms, including the Rhoynar and the First Men. It seemed now that both were out of her reach…

"No need to be so gloomy. I certainly trust Willas to be smarter than your father," her grandmother scoffed, "these are dark times, do not doubt it, but the storm seems to have passed."

"What of the Lannisters?" Margaery asked.

Her grandmother snorted in response. "Cersei is still grief-striken, half-mad, if you ask me. Lord Kevan is trying to play mediator, but secretly, he would like to see himself or his son Lancel inherit. He plays a good game, trying to make us send Cersei Lannister to Casterly Rock, thus wiping his hands of her probable capture by the Riverlanders."

"Why not give her to them, then?"

"She's more useful to us here. The lull in power in the Rock works to our advantage…for the moment."

"And…" Margaery gulped… "Lys?"

Her grandmother went silent. She knew that particular issue was touchy. They'd known the Dornish were up to something with their fleet, and it was only recently that they learned what they were yearning for: Daenerys Targaryen.

If the rumors were to be believed, she had three dragons, not just one, and this would be…catastrophic for them. One dragon had already wiped out an army, imagine three.

But it also seemed that the Mad King's daughter had other aspirations in mind than the Iron Throne. Namely, liberating Essos from slavery. A great, noble cause, to be sure. And, fortunately for them, one that would last a lifetime to complete.

But if she was turned away from that goal…all would crumble once more.

It is thus that her grandmother had activated contacts in the Free Cities, where the Dornish were sure to stop before heading further east. Of course, their privileged location was Lys, something they should have expected.

All the better for them, it was easy to make people disappear in Lys. However, it was even better when they learned who else was apparently there…

Quickly, her grandmother had worked with her father on the issue.

Scraping together a bunch of old contacts, from all levels of society, they managed to hatch a plan: to kill Prince Quentyn, thus stopping the Dornish's mad quest and provoke a succession crisis, or, failing that, to cull as many Dornish nobles to start small fights which could disjoin their effort.

And with that, if they could also finally settle the score of these pesky pirates…

Margaery had scoffed at the first reading of the plan. It sounded so outlandish. If Prince Quentyn had survived three attempts on his life already, a fourth surely would not work any better. And if he couldn't be killed, why even bother with the rest? Killing off Dornish nobles may do nothing for them except fulfill some old grudges buried from hundreds of years ago.

But there was no real alternative. If the Dornish succeeded and brought back Daenerys Targaryen…then all they could really do is keep the seat warm for her.

Better to try and gain nothing than do nothing and gain nothing…

"There has been no news," her grandmother said with a shake of her head, "but news travels slowly, especially from far away. I do not doubt that we shall have our answer soon."

Margaery grasped her necklace nervously, spinning the golden rings around her fingers.

"Is that all?" she asked.

"I'm afraid it is." Her grandmother stood up and sighed. "All we can do is wait, unfortunately."

Margaery watched her leave slowly, while she found herself alone in her rooms once more, looking out the window at the rain drops falling on the city.

Truthfully, for once, she hoped that her family's scheme would fail.

With Prince Quentyn dead, Daenerys Targaryen would come back regardless. He had planted an idea into the Dornish's heads, and they would bring it to completion. No, it was futile, all they could do now was try to find a way out of this.

Margaery looked at the grey skies, searching for a ray of light amidst the clouds, finding none.

She had had a ray of light, not so long ago. Why was she so foolish not to take it? Dorne was not the Seven Kingdoms, but it was still prestigious.

Yes, she would be second to another, but did that truly bother her? As long as her children inherited, she could care less. And if he promised her ruling and riches…

She remembered Prince Quentyn's words, then. As long as I am not wed…

Would those words still ring true now? Could she not take a ship and run to Dorne right now, give up her crown and place herself at his mercy?

It would make so many things easier. She could stop worrying whether she'd die covered in dragonflame or covered by the rubble as the Keep collapsed over her. Perhaps an explosion of a stash of wildfire, forgotten by the Mad King somewhere, or cut down by a knight eager to please the new ruler?

Margaery sighed deeply.

She wanted to go back in time, shake herself silly and tell her to accept and bring Alla while she could.

Would her past self believe in the stories about a northern dragon and a foreign queen? She also doubted that very much.

All she could do now was pray, hope and stay alive. And perhaps the gods would grant her one final wish: to get out of this wretched city alive.

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